Love is not always beautiful
by HeartBrokenShadow
Summary: While in the chapel Christine makes a different choice after a fight with Raoul. How will this change things? Erik/Christine will be alternate Love Never Dies story. My first story.
1. The Chapel

Love you Misunderstand

Chapter one

The Chapel

_"Love is confusing…especially when one loves a mystery." Aristotle_

Silence hummed eerily throughout the hollow halls of the chapel as the beautiful ingénue knelt down in the empty room. Outside it was raining and a flash of lightning sparked wickedly outside causing her to flinch. She hated lightening and the rain and when it flashed over her dress her ecru skin was pearly as the snow. Each tear like a diamond as it dropped to the black floor to shimmer like silver. Christine had never before noticed the singular beauty of a teardrop, the shape of them like a tiny pearl. Softly shaped and silver, just like Erik's eyes… so misunderstood in their beauty.

Erik's raindrop eyes were stuck in her mind, haunting and mysterious and so sad. Christine knew he had been there on the roof when she told her love to Raoul. She had heard him groaning her name so close by behind her. The young woman felt a stab of guilt, trying to shake it off. But it was impossible; those eyes that looked like beautiful teardrops. Her face went white as her revelations of her tutor's misunderstood beauty and her eyes watered with a stab of pain. A sob ripped through her frame and she reached down in front of her picking up her glass beads feeling a sudden need to pray.

_"Kyrie Elysian…Kyrie Ely…ian…Dais Erie …Dias Ilia." _

Christine kept her head down and her eyes half-closed focusing on her beads. Each one was thing of beauty, shimmering when any light hit them to light the hand-painted pink roses on them to cast a tiny reflection resembling a bouquet. The stems of the flowers were little music notes painted to brilliantly complement each blossom in a frame. Erik had given them to her on her last birthday when Carlotta had maliciously burned her wooden ones over a candle out of jealousy of course. She had been very sad of course, because those were her father's beads, the only belonging of his she had left, she had cried for days afterwards; for her father, her childhood. Christine shed a tear for all those memories that she feared she would someday forget, but most of all, the realization that Daddy Daaè was really dead and gone, that she would never see him again.

It was just then she heard a voice, "Christine…"

She did not open her eyes, wanting to lose herself in the peace that her faith brought her, plus it was hard for her to remember how to open them after so many sleepless nights. Christine sighed and felt her head fall forward onto her chest. Her throat rumbled softly and before she knew it she was snoring loudly through her nose from the stuffy nose she had acquired from crying. Soon even her fist loosened, clutching the beads went slack and they fell from her grasp clattering to the floor. Her head fell forward more and she was soon lying flat on her stomach on the thin carpet. She could feel how cold the room was and her body was shivering but she was too sleepy to care, she curled up in a fetal position. Christine felt someone's warm hand on her shoulder and then that person lifting her up, vaguely she heard someone making a tisking sound.

"Christine…" they whispered and she moaned softly.

"Go away I'm sleeping…" she mumbled.

"Poor baby…" they whispered, "I know…"

When they ran their fingers through her hair she made a negative sound, at the contact wishing to be left to her nap. "Sleeping,"

"I can tell," they said as she snored again, "but you have to wake up, it's almost show time."

"Mmm…" her eyes opened slightly and she looked up at Raoul's concerned face.

"Hello Lotte," he whispered.

"Raoul… I was just praying." She whispered her voice still thick from sleep.

"I know, I saw your beads." He said, "But it's time for you to get dressed."

"I'll be there in a minute I just want to finish my prayers."

"All right Lotte, I'll leave you be." He said and set her down next to her beads.

"Thank you," she said, picking the strand up and he nodded tiptoeing from the room.

Her rosary beads echoed like tiny claps of thunder in the sacred area but worse yet her tears echoed like the tick-tick of icy raindrops. Her slender hand lifted the long stick of incense to the three candles behind her father's picture. Christine looked down at the picture and her own blue eyes gazed back at her and the face smiled softly. It was that smile that said 'don't worry everything will be all right. The poor girl began to shake and a sob tore at her throat. She wanted her daddy more than anything right now, wanting to smell the tobacco on his shirt mingling with the peppermint cologne. Wanted to hear the sound of his violin as it sang through the starry summer night as he told her of her angel of music.

How she longed to be that child again, to have the only worry she knew be whether or not it was bedtime. Christine wanted him to wrap his arms around her and sing her a Swedish lullaby like he used to. Most of all she wanted him to say happy birthday to her because today was her sixteenth, the most important birthday of her life. But sadly she knew she would never see him again and that's what hurt the most. Her tears eased slightly when she closed her eyes and pictured her father there in the chapel and crying with her, his strong arms wrapped around her so tight she could barely move. She wanted her daddy more in that one moment than she had ever wanted him in the past nine years.

Nine years… she couldn't believe it had been so long since that horrible day when her world had come crashing down. Her body felt heavier Christine could hear her father whispering to her in that old Swedish tongue that used to soothe her so much as a child. She closed her eyes and saw him kneeling in front of her, tall and broad with thick dark hair and calloused hands. Warm and strong and gentle they framed her face and kissed her head again.

"You're so beautiful, my little one." He said.

Indeed she was; her curls cascading down to the small of her back, her skin like porcelain, and her eyes a drowning shade of forget-me-not blue. It had often been said in Glama Uppsala that she was the beauty of her generation. Beautiful as she was, her pain made her face turn twisted like that of a medusa. Her beautiful strawberry blonde curls were sticky, too much for her to run her trembling fingers through. Her forget-me-not eyes dripping tears like acid, cold but scorching on her face leaving salt-stains on her porcelain cheeks and streaks of ice, so cold they burned. Above her the stained-glass window sported the image of the mother and underneath it was the baby who was destined to become king of the universe.

"I'm so confused daddy," she sobbed, "I need you."

"No you don't… not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

Her father started to sing softly, his deep baritone voice bringing her back to her childhood when he used to lull her to sleep.

"Love's a curious thing, it often comes disguised  
Look at love the wrong way, it goes unrecognized

So look with your heart, and not with your eyes  
The heart understands, the heart never lies  
Believe what it feels, and trust what it shows  
Look with your heart, the heart always knows  
Love is not always beautiful, not at the start

So open your arms, and close your eyes tight  
Look with your heart, and when it finds love, your heart will be right

Learn from someone who knows, make sure you don't forget  
Love you misunderstand is love that you'll regret…"

"What does that mean?" she asked, he just smiled.

"I think you can figure it out."

"No I can't I—"

But that was the last thing she said to him because he disappeared and she snapped her head up to stare at the beautiful stained glass window. Christine looked up at her peaceful face and felt her own heart throb with envy and a curious feeling like hatred. What was so special about her that she got to be at peace twenty-four-seven? Looking at her closed eyes she found her heart twisting in rage but then softening to pity at her unfortunate plight. She may be the true bride of God but her baby…she lost him at such a young age and in such a horrible way. Worse in a way it was her husband's fault for it was by his plan that her child had to suffer and she had to witness it.

The ingénue closed her eyes again shedding a tear of pity for the poor mother and her poor son who had died before his rightful time. Even if he was a king and the child of the almighty, he was seriously overrated and selfish. Always doing his father's bidding well he was one hell of a father wasn't he? What kind of father actually planned their son's death even if it would save all of humanity? What kind of husband would wish to cause his wife such pain, cursing her to lose the child she had raised with a stepfather? Who was God to decide the fate of this boy when he had done little if anything for him? But then, the phrase 'like father, like son' was not entirely untrue, what kind of son leaves his mother alone to suffer? True she had been a Daddy's girl her whole life but she had no choice, and was guilty of the same thing, always doing whatever her daddy asked.

She knew full well that she sounded like a hypocrite but after all she had been motherless her whole life. But _he _hadn't been and had hurt his mother in the worst way. Christine felt a stab of remorse for her selfishness, after everything poor Mary had been through she deserved to be at peace in the arms of the man she loved and kissing the head of her child. But then her envy came back full-force and she crossed herself in a plea for forgiveness after committing such a deadly sin. Her papa would be ashamed of her if he were to see her in this state. After all a good catholic girl was not meant to feel such an emotion as she might very well find herself damned for all time.

But she couldn't help herself, and she tore the necklace that her tutor had given her from her pulsing throat. The piece of jewelry smacked against the stained glass window with a small chink and she glared at the piece. But then she walked over to the corner and picked it up leaning against the wall and hiding her face in her arms. Christine could not imagine the pain she must have felt, but then she knew that pain in a way. She knew the private torture of a broken heart and the utter confusion of being in love with one man and wanting to love someone else.

It was indeed an exquisite torture but a pain almost too sweet to wish away. It was a strange thing to both love and hate an emotion involving a man but then it was only natural. Why should she not hate Erik when he invoked this torture? But then she was so drawn to him that it wasn't even funny. Her thoughts wandered to the night she had spent with him in his candlelight and her body shivered. She recalled his touch as his silk-clad hands ran all over her body, the only barrier between them her thin muslin nightgown. Christine remembered the way his hands had roamed wantonly over her breasts and midsection. How his tenor had made her forget the sinfulness of this kidnapper's touch and the dreadful situation she was in.

She wanted to feel that as she laid there in Raoul's arms but she just didn't. Why this was she had no clue and all this thinking made her head throb. She really did not like thinking, not that she had anything against the activity but she preferred the soothing tune of a dream. That soothing, rocking, safety of a lie where one did not have to think about anything and get lost in it, damn papa for his senseless teachings that dreams were safer than reality. Her body was exhausted from the strain of her thoughts. Her eyes were heavy but then she felt a presence in the room with her. Her blue eyes opened and she began to sing softly, losing herself in the moment of music. But her moment was broken by the thunking of footsteps on the rickety old stairs and when she raised her eyes there was Raoul.

He was sitting there trying to smile at her and when she looked at him she felt her blood run cold as ice. She knew then that she wasn't as attracted to Raoul as she thought and her heart broke at the sight of him. His eyes held a fierce love for her and it made her heart flutter with some strange emotion like fear. There was some emotion in his eyes resembling bloodlust, something crazy deep within that love and she felt herself shivering. His arms were so warm; too warm and far too tight for her liking, Christine tried to move away but He reached for her and held her close. In that moment she was reminded of just why she was so attached to her fiancé, he was safe. Warm and solid and safe, he rubbed her back and kissed her head as though he meant to comfort her.

It was no use however, her terror at what she was about to do was too great and she started to cry. Christine knew in that moment that she couldn't do this and turned her face into his shirt, soaking it. Raoul's perfect lips brushed hers and then deepened so hard that her eyes closed again. That was a mistake the minute she did that she was falling asleep, this time he did not wake her, even laughing gently when she started to snore and she was faced with the fact that many considered her the luckiest woman in the world. It was so perfect, too perfect.

He was so beautiful and so far above her station that it seemed almost impossible for him to love her as much as he did. Yet here he was holding her and loving her and indeed she was lucky. But then why did she feel nothing in his arms. He was the typical fairytale prince. Rich, handsome, funny and from a good steady family it was no wonder that her master hated the man when his own visage was one so horrible that it brought her to her knees in terror. No, not in terror, in pity…his haunted face held no horror for her. Her fiancé kissed her mouth and she felt her body curiously rejecting the sensation. Not because his kiss was repulsive because it wasn't, it just seemed to feel wrong to her. He pulled away looking into her eyes in earnest but she saw in them a bloodshot gleam as though he had not slept for a while.

"What's wrong?" she asked.  
"Haven't slept for a while, that demon haunts my dreams."

She was angry at him now for saying such things because…well she didn't know really. After all she was partially responsible for his opinion but then it still made her mad. After thinking about it for a moment she realized it was because Raoul did not know him. He did not know how his voice or the way that he loved when he was able to do so. She however knew him in the most intimate way possible, she knew his music. And here she was about to lead him to his death. Her stomach churned as the clock struck six, the waking hour of Don Juan Triumphant and she lurched forward and threw up. Her nerves racking her enough to make her sick to her stomach, Raoul ran to her side and mopped her mouth. He grabbed an old wooden bucket used for catching the rain when it seeped through the cracks in the celling and held it under her chin. She gagged until her retching calmed down into shakes. She had never felt such stage fright in her life

Raoul shushed her gently, "my poor love…look at what he's done to you." She wanted to give that look that made him wince with apology, but all she wanted to do was burst into tears. "Now come on let's get this over with and trap that demon."

"He's _not a demon!" _she snapped, "Stop calling him that!"

"Him? Oh god you're humanizing that thing!"

"Erik's not a thing…"

"Erik? Oho it has a name now?"

"If you call him that one more time…"

What Raoul did next shocked her, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. His eyes no longer held that love that they once had, they were angry and he threw her to the ground. "Get that hell-spawn out of your head, he will die tonight and that's that!"

"No he won't I refuse to do this!" she snapped and then Raoul slapped her, splitting her lip and knocking her to the floor. She landed on her stomach with a split lip and she looked up at him with watery eyes.

"Oh god Christine I'm so sorry, what have I done?"

"Go away…" she sobbed.

"Christine I—" he stuttered.

"I said go away!" and so he did,

Raoul turned his back away to her, walking away leaving her in that dark cold room, weeping and alone. She was frightened and about to lead a man to his death and for the first time she felt truly like the little girl she was and cried like a child. Wanting her Angel and knowing she might never hear him again.

**This is my first story, tell me how I did?**


	2. In Between

Chapter two

In Between

_"The Lord works in mysterious ways…" Unknown_

She watched him leave, watched her girlhood prince walk away after striking her so cruelly for calling a man what he was. That's all Erik was, a man just like Raoul…with flesh and blood and warmth. Well perhaps not warmth, but she supposed he could be warm if he did not live in that hole. But nevertheless what her suitor did was uncalled for. How would he like to be dehumanized like this?

It was several moments before Christine was able to struggle into a sitting position, her wrist had a few drops of blood on it from her fall. She lifted her injured wrist to her lips and nursed it like a baby sucking on her mother's breast. The taste of it was coppery and bitter on her tongue and she hated it. She spit it on the floor, gagging from the taste and then gave into the urge and threw up again. Blood had always disgusted and frightened her, much like Erik's violence. Her life had been so sheltered growing up that she had not possessed the mind of a woman and even now she felt like a child. There right now in the chapel she wanted to drift back in time, back to Sweden to those carefree days on her father's boat.

Christine sighed and leaned against the wall allowing herself to blank her mind and drift back. Back to that place where the sea was her world and her and the sky, blue or grey went on and on forever. She wanted to be there again on the S.S. Storyteller where she and he had known no boundaries or sorrows. If she closed her eyes she could almost see herself and Papa standing on the deck of his small sailboat, her straw sunhat in danger of blowing clear off her head. Her father removed the hat and loosed her pigtail braids untangling her wavy curls with his knurled musician's fingers.

She could see him with his long shaggy beard, unkempt and wild like him. She knew that daddy's long stays in Scottish lands he had picked up the accent of the highlands, something her mama had found charming. Christine had to admit she found it cute too; it made her think of big fluffy sheep and soft thick grass.

"Hurry along there lassie, the sea's-a dangerous mistress," she heard him call.

"Aye-Aye Papa sir!" she shouted and ran to the wheel of the helm.

"Careful lass, there's a storm brewing off starboard!"

She saluted him and yanked at the helm having papa come up behind her and wrap his big paws over wind rocked the ship back and forth and so did he as he did a seaman's waltz as the songs had often told. Her father had laughed in his gruff rough-and-tumble voice and ruffled her strawberry blonde curls, and little Christine laughed joyously as her fingers were engulfed in his. He spun the wheel hard and fast, causing the boat to twirl like a spinning top and the salty water to spray them in the face. Christine made a face and spat twice, crossing her eyes and wrinkling her little nose.

"Ewwww… gross!" she said, her father laughed.

"Tis only water lass." He chuckled.

"Still yucky

_"How about a song for yer old papa lass..." _her daddy whispered, winking "_make the mermaids cry!"_

The little girl nodded and opened her mouth:

Upon one summer's morning, I carefully did stray,  
Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay,  
Conversing with a young lass, who seemed to be in pain,  
Saying, William, when you go, I fear you will ne'er return again.

His hair hangs in ringlets, his eyes as black as soles,  
My happiness attend him wherever he may go,  
From Tower Hill, to Blackwall, I'll wander, weep and moan,  
All for my jolly sailor bold, until he does return.

My father is a merchant — the truth I will now tell,  
And in great London City in opulence doth dwell,  
His fortune doth exceed 300,000 gold,  
And he frowns upon his daughter, 'cause she loves a sailor bold.

A fig for his riches, his merchandise, and gold,  
True love has grafted my heart; give me my sailor bold:  
Should he return in poverty, from o'er the ocean far,  
To my tender bosom, I'll fondly press my jolly tar.

My sailor is as smiling as the pleasant month of May,  
And oft we have wandered through Ratcliffe Highway,  
Where many a pretty blooming girl we did behold,  
Reclining on the bosom of her jolly sailor bold.

My name it is Maria, a merchant's daughter fair,  
And I have left my parents and three thousand pounds a year,  
Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be  
Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea,

While up aloft, in storm, from me his absence mourn,  
And firmly pray, arrive the day, he home will safe return.  
My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,  
There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.

Just like that her vision dissipated and the room returned to normal, they were itchy and burning and soon drooping. Her eyes became half-closed and the refrain escaped her mouth and when she opened them her a little she knew that staying there was a mistake, she knew that she must get up and get ready for the performance but as she tried to rise to her feet she winced and thought better of it. Moving was not a good idea at the moment.

Christine sat still in the chapel nursing her bleeding lip, it stung and burned and to top it off ached from being swollen. She sat there and cried for several moments, till her eyes were chafe and itchy and quite honestly she looked awful. There was nothing for it, she had to do it as much as she hated herself for it she picked herself up and walked shakily down the stairs, her tears making the stones slippery and unsafe. Christine was never graceful- that's why she never made it in ballet- and so she (being the clumsy girl she was) tripped over her own feet stumbling in an unladylike way that would have made her friends call her "Grace" in a sarcastic tone.

"Ow," she mumbled as she scraped her knee on the stone, "Damn it!" she cursed under her breath.

She slipped down the steps and landing hard on the back of her head. She reached back and felt her head, feeling something warm and wet smear across her fingers. Christine groaned and gazed at her reddened fingers for a moment before a wave of dizziness began to overtake her senses. Christine tried to stand up but she was becoming too weak to see straight, her senses were slowing and she felt drugged. Still she stumbled clumsily to her feet running her hand along the cold stone wall to get her bearings. Christine felt herself collapsing to her knees and she blinked trying to focus but the more she tried the worse it got. Her head now ached abominably with the beginnings of a migraine.

Her body seemed to want nothing more than to lie down and be still, she was worn out from her body and the shock of her fiancé's actions. But her eyes were too blurry to focus on anything, she moaned as the room swam in a dizzy circle and her world went black. She lay down on the stone floor with her coat pillowing her head and drifted off to another world. When she opened her eyes, she was in a warm white room, wrapped in the warmest blanket she had ever been in. Her body felt like it was wrapped in a tight but gentle hug. She closed her eyes wanting to go back to sleep but was too fascinated by her surroundings to even think of rest right now. Everything except for the furniture was made of what appeared to be the purest gold Christine had ever lay eyes on.

"Where am I?" she asked.

Her voice echoed around the room but no reply came, in fact the silence was almost like the kind of silence where one is waiting for a monster to strike them dead. Christine felt a sudden shiver down her spine as it always did when she was in a strange new place. She had not felt like this since her stay in Erik's home but that was for an entirely different reason. Christine shook her head as she tried to shrug off the memory and went exploring about the place trying to find her bearings and then she heard something soft from behind a white gilded door with the words _Enter ye who love yet are confused. _ That seemed to fit her just fine, in fact it fit her perfectly and so she opened the door and stepped into the entrance.

The room was so quiet that her footsteps seemed to clatter like an earthquake as though she were some large giantess from Jack and the Beanstalk. So she stopped to look around the room at the intricacy of the place. The gothic yet simple beauty of it impressed her in ways that no words could ever express. It was clearly a music room, either that or some kind of mansion; in fact it had to be a mansion because no normal house would be so massive or expensive. Christine swept as silently as she could along the room, running her fingers along the perfectly-tuned piano and a string on a violin as deep and mellow as her father's voice.

The beauty found her eyes glued to it, its glimmering memorizing her into some kind of hypnotic trance. She hung onto every note that the lady strummed out, every cord fitting her ears like a glove on her hands. Those gloves were made of silk, soft and cool and soothing, the music a whisper as soft as the rustle. Christine noticed her ears automatically tuning into these peculiar sounds as though she were hearing and imagining them for the first time. Each one more clear and vivid than the next, more potent and clearer than the last, she then heard soft music wafting from to her ears from the side of the room and she turned her head to see the source as the music swelled to a crescendo.

Her eyes fell on the player and widened at what she saw. In the corner sat a woman playing a handsome gilded harp with strings that looked to be made of gossamer and silk, tight for fortitude and beautiful in its art. She seemed lost in her music, as gentle as a lullaby and as soft as a church-hymn. Christine thought that tune sounded familiar; as though she had heard it a long time ago. Her voice rose softly and for some reason she began to hum along with the music. This was not unusual as she had always been apt at hearing things like pitch and melodies. She was also very good at making up lyrics and so on and so forth, depending on the feeling of the tune. The tune of this one was somber and almost wondering over an unanswered question. The quarry was simple enough…it was a question told in one word: _why?_

The song was so soft and tortured much like something Erik would write…Christine found her lips forming the pained words, much like Erik again. The words asking the one question she had been wondering since Raoul had struck her. The questions that lead to the other questions plaguing her mind in infinite quantities. She had so many questions, so many that her head hurt from the strain of it all. She wonder why it was that she did not try harder to find the answers to the thoughts that she had left unvoiced for far too long, about what she wanted out of life and why she did not know what she wanted. Her legs were going numb from standing so she sat down next to the woman on the bench, trying to smile at the harpist but she paid no attention. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts come out of her lips in a sad, confused melody.

_"I look for sympathy, he gives me sorrow… I ask for honesty, he's none to borrow…_

_I need his tender kiss, I beg it of him…he gives me ugliness…why do I love him?"_

As she finished the questioning line her throat closed with tears and her voice cut itself short. The woman turned her head and smiled softly stopping her song mid-stroke and cupped her cheeks in her cool hands. She pulled Christine into her arms and stayed silent for several moments running her luc-warm fingers through her curls and when she looked at her and froze, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes…

_"Mother?"_


	3. The Angel of Music

Chapter 3

The Angel of Music

_"Appearances can be deceiving." Leonardo De Vinci _

The young woman's eyes were fixated on the mother she had only seen in pictures of black and white. How deep the redness of her strawberry blonde hair was and how drowning her blue eyes were. Her hands were soft and graceful paler than fresh milk and as smooth as silk. As her tune continued, the light dimmed to the intimacy of candlelight making Christine cringe, she had always hated the dark and felt awkward with her mother in such a setting. This was an environment for two lovers not for a daughter just meeting her mother.

Her mother returned to her instrument and took Christine's hand in hers strumming in handover to a beautiful love song. Christine felt like a child as she gazed at the closed eyes of her mother and the cultured smile on her face. Her hands looked easy and gentle as she caressed the strings of every note. She guided Christine's hand over hers and when she pulled back gently the music stopped. Christine was sorry for this, the music had been so soothing and lovely and her mother's presence with her hand over hers was comforting. But she had to get to the bottom of this.

How did she get here, why the hell was she even here and more importantly how did she get home? She tapped her mother with her other hand but she paid no attention, she did it three more times and when she continued to be unresponsive she sighed in annoyance. Her mother had gone back to her lullabies, something that was becoming tiresome and so the girl clapped her hand ever her mother's none-too-gently and the older woman gazed at her. Well, she wasn't really older than her in fact they looked to be the same age. But that was impossible… her thoughts were broken by her mother's soft voice, curious and questioning.

Her mother turned to her, "Do you not like the music my dear?"

"No," she said quickly, "It's beautiful but…"

"But," her mother echoed, "What?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Talk to me while I play." She said and turned back to her music.

"Well my dear you do not age when you have died…"

"But…you're…" she couldn't finish the thought it horrified her.

"I know, I am your age or rather not much older

Her mother smiled sadly and nodded, her eyes shaped like teardrops as she gazed at Christine's puzzled face. She said nothing and then slowly she rose from her chair and knelt down by her daughter pulling her to her feet gently. She ran her slender hands up and down the young woman's arms. Her mother twirled her by the arm and then a huge beam graced her mouth and she kissed her forehead.

"My goodness Christine you are as beautiful as Gustave says you are…" she said.

"Papa's here too?" she asked hoping to see him.

But the look her m

Her mother turned serious, "Yes and he is very disappointed in you young lady."

"Uh…" Christine muttered not knowing where to begin.

"Dear I do not speak mumble." She said.

"Oh mama where do I begin… why can't I make up my mind?" The young ingénue's eyes filled up.

Her mother glared at her and gave Christine a sharp tap on the head causing her to wince. Waving away her protest and crossing the room to pick up her mirror and handing it to her. Christine raised her golden eyebrow; her mother made a gesture, a wordless command for her to look into it. So, she did and staring back at her was the vision of her father lying on his deathbed, stroking her hair with tears running down his face and looking feverish. Her father was whispering to her that he would send her the angel of music. Her little face was splotchy and red from crying and her father was wiping her tears away.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…" he started, "Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?" he let out a cough and blood trickled down his chin.

"Daddy…"

Christine could not bear to look at this anymore. She threw it down and it shattered into pieces with a clash and a horrible crunching sound. She stepped on the fragments crushing them into dust and then fell down to her knees and sobbed into her hands. She didn't want to see her father and she knew what was coming next he would promise her the angel of music who would never come. The angel of music that would turn out to be simply a man and not a very stable one at that, his mood swings were violent well to be honest even they were unpredictable, ranging from maniacal to pathetic in a moment's notice. Then he went to declarations of unconditional love and as for his anger well that was even worse.

She could look past everything he had done even the kidnapping if he didn't frighten her so much. But then, being the child she was maybe it was the intensity of those emotions that frightened her. Still the long-buried ache that came from reality made her want to cry, why did the world have to be so cold to her and steal from her the only steady love she had ever felt? To replace it with this type of turmoil was just another twist of cruel fate. Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up at the slightly annoyed blue eyes.

"Stop weeping; it won't do you any good…" Her mother said sternly giving her that parent-look.

"But I… wasn't weeping."

"Well don't start."

"Mama I…"

"You what…love do you ever finish your sentences?"

"I don't mean to stutter I just…"

Her mother rolled her eyes, "talk with me when you've collected your thoughts."

Christine sat silently for several moments by her mother, her eyes shut as she tried to form her explanation. Her mother was silent also and stayed that way as she put her daughter at ease with a lullaby. Finally she turned and looked at her and reached her hand out to her child squeezing her hand. Christine laced her fingers through her mothers and squeezed her hand back, trying to pluck up the courage to speak. After all what did one say to their dead mother in the first place?

"Try, 'hello.' "Her mother said, guessing her thoughts.

"Mama, I am in love with two men at once."

Her mother nodded, "Go on."

"One is so beautiful and the other one is well not so much…"

"Ah, well the one who is 'not so much' is the one who loves you more."

"How do you know?"

She laughed prettily, the sound like a Christmas bell, "I'm an Angel I know everything."

"Oh?"

"Of course loving come along I have something to show you," said her mother, holding out a slender hand. "Your father did in fact send you the angel of music."

"No he didn't." she replied.

"Be silent child!" she snapped, "Don't you ever cease to complain?"

Christine followed her mother silently listening to her mother mumble something about never seeing such a whiny child in her afterlife. How she had seen people on earth in far worse situations and were perfectly content in their lives. She reached behind her and caught Christine's hand tugging her toward a thick wooden door. Her mother reached down where a small silver key appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She turned it and it made a tinkling sound like a wind chime in a light summer breeze.

She lead her daughter to the room where a harp and mirror where mounted atop one another where she sat down before her and pulled her down beside her motioning for her to look at it and strumming her fingers over it. The beautiful music seemed to continue through the room even though the musician had ceased to play. It swelled around them softly and seemed to wrap Christine in warmth and comfort. They stared at each other for several moments and Christine drank in the sight of the woman before her. Her papa had been right; she did resemble her mother—almost to the point of spookiness. The hair, the eyes all of it was just like her and her mother seemed to know it too. Nodding wordlessly as she released her to look deeper into her face.

She couldn't believe her eyes; her mother was sitting there as if she hadn't died when she was born all those years ago. Christine was ashamed to admit that she had forgotten what her mother looked like having not seen the pictures of her in years. She hoped that her mother was as forgiving as papa said she was and would pardon the shock. The other woman seemed overjoyed to see her, indeed her mother smiled and nodded at her. She was staring into her eyes, kissing her forehead again and simply gazing at her with a watery smile. Christine closed her eyes as the woman framed her face with her cool fingers.

"Watch the mirror Christine." She said.

So she did and its clear smooth surface reflected a picture of the sky and a castle on a clouds. In the mirror there stood a beautiful man with raindrop eyes on the steps of a gilded throne. He had thick chestnut hair and the purest wings she had ever seen. He had dropped to his knees to kiss the man's ring on his master's hand. He nodded to him and then he spoke and Christine's heart stopped at the sound and that familiar chills went down her spine.

"I wish to live Master…" It was Erik's voice there could be no mistaking it.

Christine had a sudden tremor of fear, no it couldn't be! Erik couldn't be dead! Her mother placed a calming hand on her shoulder and shook her head. Christine took a deep breath to steady herself her eyes suddenly glued to the mirror. It was as though she were watching the first act of the most elaborate opera she had ever seen. The man who sounded like Erik and the man who was the greatest ruler in the universe speaking to one another right before her mortal eyes. She knew that what she was seeing was real but at the same time she didn't believe her eyes. There was the royal family of the celestial kingdom, the savior on his left and the holy virgin on his right.

Her hand was in his and her head was nestled in his shoulder, they looked like the typical happy married couple. Who would have guessed that in actuality the Lord seemed to be your typical family man? After pondering this a moment Christine decided it was not so unusual, after all he was technically the 'father' of all mortal beings but still she hadn't expected him to seem so… _normal._

The older man raised a quizzical brow and stood from his chair, gazing at the other with a look of confusion. He walked to him and pulled him to his feet, the man gazed at him hard. It was as though he could not believe his ears. The angel with Erik's voice seemed pensive and as though he was confused. The old man looked at him through sharp eyes and furrowed his brow seriously. It was the kind of look that a grandfather (for the man appeared to be elderly) would give an adolescent wishing to try his first alcohol. The other angel version of Erik was shifting his feet and plucking at his fluffy wings in obvious nervousness. Christine watched him as the other man finally spoke, his voice full of a question mixed with the first statement.

"But you are alive… here in paradise, where you have music and no care in the world. What do you mean you want to live?"

"As a mortal in the human world…" he responded.

The other threw his head back and laughed, seeming to think this a very good joke. "But my boy, you're the Angel of Music. The finest seraphim in my choir and surely there are many beautiful angels here in paradise for you to choose from."

"None as beautiful as her, she's one of your finest creations, she stirs something in me…" he started to weep with the same wretchedness that tore her heart out. "I have committed a mortal sin…I feel the lust of a mortal man."

The old man looked at him seriously and tugged his hand over his mouth to cup his wrinkly chin. He looked at Erik seriously. "Which mortal woman causes an angel to sin?"

"Christine Daaè," he said," The one whose voice is good enough to be one of us."

God seemed to get a proud gleam in his eyes, "Ah yes, took me some time to make her. You have good taste in a mortal to break the rules with. All right, you can go but for a price."

"Yes master, I will pay any price you ask."

"You must choose your voice or your beauty. You can only take one. That is my price."

Erik looked down in deep thought, before answering, "My voice, a woman with a voice as hers will surely appreciate music more than beauty."

He gave him a questioning look saying 'are you certain' and Erik gave a grave shake of his head as though he knew this decision was one he could never reverse. The Lord shook his head apologetically and nodded and reached toward Erik gripping the skin on his face and giving it one sharp tug. He screamed in agony as the flesh was torn away and The Lord nodded as he gave him a light push. In one moment she saw him falling faster and faster into a never-ending darkness and then the mirror went back to its clear surface. Her mother nodded and looked at her seriously as she turned fully in her direction.

"Erik gave up his beauty and his place in eternity for you and you'd give him up." Her mother said.

Christine felt ashamed of herself for being so shallow and simple-minded, knowing that the most beautiful angel in the heavenly choir had come down to live the life from hell. He had doomed himself to torture and isolation and all for her love and yet she looked mainly at the twisted scarring and thought of only physical attractions. What made it hurt even more was the realization was that he would have never been in that position if it weren't for her. Raoul would never have done that for her, she didn't know how she had figured this out but she just knew it from the bottom of her heart. In that one moment she knew that Erik's love for her was so much deeper than Raoul's and it tore a hole in her heart.

How could she have been so cruel to the man when he had given up so much on her behalf? She felt her eyes water and this time her mother did not stop her tears instead she sat silently and waited for her to stop. But she didn't, she cried herself out till she fell back into that spiraling darkness. Christine vaguely heard her mother's voice telling her to wake and then she heard the sound of her own snoring rumbling softly in her ears. She woke then, the room blurring into focus as she stumbled clumsily to her feet intending to go back to her dressing room. But as was her habit she became too distracted to notice where she was going,

The next thing she knew, something sharp poked her in the foot and she winced muttering 'ow'. There was an eerie creaking sound and she looked down her eyes widening at what she saw. The floor was opening like a chasm before her eyes, spreading wider and wider still until she was standing on air. As is the case with air, one cannot stand on it and so she was falling into the space with nothing to grab onto to steady herself. She fell faster and faster until she hit something as hard as stone. It was cold and hard and she felt herself being submerged in it completely, struggling to the surface when she registered that it was water.

Erik's underground lake to be exact, she spit out the water and coughed, attempting to propel her tired body forward. Her muscles ached as she forced herself to swim and she swallowed the foul water as it rose to her chin and seeped through her lips. She gagged and sputtered till at last she felt something solid beneath her hand. The river bank at last, she heaved herself up onto it and vomited up the water. She heard music wafting from the inside his home, horrible tortured music that rang with agony and self-hatred. Christine could see the wooden gate with the alarm on it and she crawled to it, reaching for it with the last of her energy to pull it as she collapsed fully against it causing it to shriek. She heard grumbling and then in the dim candlelight she saw two raindrop eyes looking rather annoyed.

"Who goes there?" he asked.

"Erik…" she moaned and then her world went black.

**Sorry for the wait I was sick and out of town**


	4. Unbreakable Spell

Chapter 4

Unbreakable spell

"When one is in torment, love is its tormenter." Unknown

Erik had been sitting at his organ playing a sad tune as he listened in the dark to the fine acoustics swirling around him in the cold and dismal night. The world slipped in his mind in and out of clarity as he picked up the discarded stem of the crushed rose she had dropped on the rood. Tears leaked from his eyes as he marveled at the loss of the bloom, once so beautiful and red. Vibrant and full of life, just like love itself and now just as his love it was dead, crushed and mutilated like his tortured heart. He gazed down at the stem where one last petal drooped forlornly from its stem, looking like a tear of pain that had yet to fall from its massacred face.

He pressed the petal to his face, its silky gloss caressing the unmasked side of his face. It was the only piece of her that he had left. He had given her everything he had, his music, his love and his heart. She had taken it in her hands just like the rose and dropped it, not gently either into the pit of his despair. True she had not physically harmed the rose, but seeing the only physical gift he had ever given her is cast aside in favor of someone who could offer her more material things had been just as painful if she had slain him herself. His voice rose in a choked whisper and the lyrics he had written in that blackness came out. The lyrics were not full of the rage he had felt, rather they were almost coaxing as if to convince himself that he was fine way he was.

"Like every tree stands on its own  
Reaching for the sky I stand alone  
I share my world with no one else  
All by myself  
I stand alone  
I've seen your world with these very eyes  
Don't come any closer, don't even try  
I've felt all the pain and heard all the lies  
But in my world there's no compromise  
Like every tree stands on its own  
Reaching for the sky I stand alone  
I share my world with no one else  
All by myself I stand alone  
All by myself I stand alone  
All by myself I stand alone."

Erik's voice reverberated off the walls of his cave the words sounding as they were, torn from the soul of a wounded man. In the shadowy darkness of his underground home Erik had been composing…well not really more like venting the emotion that he had been bottling up. His music had been the only thing keeping him sane or so he thought. He had been enveloped in it so deeply that his madness had become infused with the melodies. It swirled around him endlessly and no matter how hard he tried he could not break free to its surface. He had long since ceased to fight the current and submerged himself in the turbulence within his mind. He swam with those tides, black, murky, a deep shadowed pool of bitterness and tortured love forever to remain unreturned.

Love was meant for the beautiful and he was certainly not, love was meant for people like the Vicomte. Handsome, lovesick young men with eyes like the summer sky. Erik had to congratulate her on her taste at the very least, if she must shatter his heart than she must be choosing someone as beautiful as she is. That didn't change the fact that every moment he thought of her in his arms made him feel sick to his stomach. He had written that song to make himself feel better but the endeavor had failed miserably. All his efforts to heal his inner pain had failed thus far and his appearance reflected it.

In the golden surface of his polished organ he saw his face and the picture mocked him. The handsome un-deformed side of his face showing him that he was a human…a man with the ability to feel… How he hated the fact that he could feel love, the fact that he had a heart was something he hated even more than his hideous face. He cursed God for creating him with the heart of a human male, the body of a human man and the face of a demon. Most of all he raged, raged at her with anger so fierce that words could not express it. So he let his music speak for him, beautiful tragic music that told the long and laborious story of the tragedy that was his life. The notes caused his consciousness to slip and slowly, very slowly his thoughts slipped to those of sin.

Lustful thoughts of her and the night she had been beneath his hands, eyes closed and floating to his dark seductive music. Erik pictured her sighing beneath his touch as he sang to her; subconsciously he felt his lips warm as his hot breath ricocheted back to his lips. It was the first warmth he had ever felt on his own skin and it had carried the scent of her back to him. He inhaled deeply; eyes shut and thought he could still smell her French Vanilla perfume and cherry-blossom hair-soap as he ran his gloved through her hair. It was a memory too sweet and too painful for him to physically hold back and the pressure of his sorrow burned behind his eyes.

In his grief a single tear seeped down his face, trickled burningly down the malformed side of his face and he winced clutching at his face through the silk of the cover. One of his fingers pressed through the material as he tried to locate the droplet. The salt in it burned the chasms of missing skin and a line of sweat leaked from underneath his mask. He pressed there where the sensation was and felt something hot and sticky glued to his mask. Blood, he tore off his mask and stared at the smears marring the pristine white surface.

It was still wet and he thought that it reminded him of her lips, wet, rosy and glistening. Erik groaned as he forced himself to remember that it was from his own face. He placed the mask on his face and groaned as he imagined her lips there. Erik thought they might feel as smooth and semi warm as his mask did at the moment. His face always bled at the slightest touch because the skin was so terribly thin, but the hole always burned the worse when he cried from the bitter sault of his tears. He let the blood dry on his face determined to ignore the sting of it till he heard a noise.

He stopped his dark musing, suddenly on the alert like the animal he was. Erik rose from his bench, angry at the intrusion but feeling that murder was the best stress reliever for his thoughts of Christine. He went to the gate grabbing his lasso as he went. Whoever this was, was about to meet their maker. But just as he was about to swoop down and vent his rage on that member of the perfect race, the human in him caused him to freeze and ask who the singular intruder was. It was just as he was about to smack himself for asking such a thing when he heard someone calling his name weakly in the dark.

"Erik…"

The voice was soft and feminine; childlike and as soft as the wind on the summer breeze. It sent chills down his spine as he saw Christine laying there limp on the cold wet stone. He stumbled like a drunk from the shock but lifted her easily to his bony chest. Tears streamed down his face as he gazed down at her as his cheeks became wet. She looked so pathetic…soaked in water and…blood it looked like. He was drunk. There was no denying that, his eyes were glassy and dreamlike as he floated in a sea of utter euphoria. Erik stumbled like a bum toward the voice, his grace suspended from his inebriated state.

Colors bright and pale whirled around him. He just couldn't believe what he was seeing; his beautiful, darling, innocent Christine... She was here, and calling for him! Soaked to the bone too, But why had she come? Shouldn't she be dancing in the arms of her handsome fiancé? That bloody Vicomte De Chagny! It was just too much for him to handle! He got out a bottle of scotch, even though he hated the taste. He drank half of the bottle in ten minutes. The other in five, and then many more bottles of wine afterward, that was the only way to explain the sight before him as he looked narrowly at the shape at his door.

Erik lifted her into his arms her eyes opened slowly, their brilliant blueness gleaming at him tiredly. They closed again and a soft groan came from her and he could see her arms were bruised from an apparent struggle. His brow furrowed, the water could not have done this, it scarcely rippled but then there were little droplets of blood on the walls as though she had been battling and then he felt for the first time a pang of remorse. His Christine had never been a good swimmer and she was most likely dog-paddling and as the water grew closer and closer to his home it grew deeper and darker.

Everything in Erik screamed for him to turn around and leave her there, to take his revenge for his heartache. But his heart, traitorous as it was screamed louder with an overpowering call to tend his angel with her fragile body so weathered by this world meant to protect the mortally beautiful. He carried her carefully, as hurt as he was he still wanted her to be comfortable and warm, so with heavy steps he carried her limp form to the Luis-Philippe room and laid her down amid the thick velvet sheets. Erik made a move to leave her then but seeing her soaked like that and shivering tugged at his heartstrings. Fear crawled up his spine and out of impulse; he stripped her of her wet clothes and left her naked before him.

Erik knew that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to cover her and leave the room but he was drawn to her body as if he were a virginal schoolboy with his summer love and not a man of thirty-six who had seen many an in inappropriate picture in his time. Beside her bed were large jars of different color paint, and paper (he'd been using this room for storage when she had left him) and so he took up a white one and began to paint her like that on his bed only this time he covered her up to the shoulders. She sighed and rolled over, obviously the warmth making her drowsy. He shook his head and blew on the painting taking out his pen to draw a string of tiny z's coming from her.

He set his work down and watched her sleep for some time until boredom took over him and he carefully penned a big thought-bubble on her forehead with head in the clouds in the middle. He laughed as she rolled over so her face was toward him and he decided to draw a cat (her favorite animal) so he painted the whiskers on her delicately to form the word's Daddy Daaè's little girl. Just at that moment she blinked and yawned and looked at him. He closed his eyes and faked snoring, hoping not to get caught but of course when she felt her bare skin beneath her hands she knew something was amiss.

"Erik? She asked, "Where are my clothes?" when she received no answer she assumed he was asleep but then when she looked in the mirror above her bed she screamed and slapped him.

"Ow!" Erik snapped back, "Why?  
"I could ask you the same why did you draw on my face and why am I naked?"

"I was bored, watching you sleep is no opera my dear."

"You were-all right then!" she glared at him, "Where are my clothes?"

"You were soaked to the skin I needed to get you warm and why were you here anyway?"

"Well I…" she grabbed a wet towel from the table that he used to wash his brushes and washed the paint from her skin.

How did she explain to Erik about her dreams and who he was in a former life? She leaned forward and kissed him knowing that no amount of words could explain the situation. He gasped and then slowly, very slowly kissed her back. It seemed that he understood as well, because in that moment he started to cry, his hands framed her face and when she pulled away he looked her deeply in the eyes.

"I love you too…"


	5. Would you do me the honor?

Chapter 5

Would you do me the honor?

_ "Enthralled to the call of the Beauty Underneath…" Love never Dies_

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Christine shook her head; the man was brilliant when it came to women he was as thick as a hunk of plywood. She leaned on his chest and felt him stiffen but still she wanted to curl up with him and that was just what she did. He shook his head and started to pull away from her, injured eyed and tearful as though she had physically ripped his heart straight out of his chest. He tried to pull away but she held onto him so hard that her knuckles turned white as a sheet and they both winced. Her from the pressure of her grip and he from the unexpected strength of it, she knew his skin was sensitive and felt sorry when she saw dents forming in his skin. She released him and kissed the reddening marks on his arm in apology.

"I mean 'I love you' exactly what I said." She replied, cuddling into the niche of his shoulder.

He leaned down and sobbed into her strawberry blonde hair, his tears soaking her hair and causing it to stick together. She sighed and reached up to wrap her hands gingerly around his neck and kissed the side of his throat wanting to comfort her lover but knowing that no words would be sufficient and the best thing to do at the moment was assume that his tears were ones of joy. Erik said nothing to her instead he tipped her chin up wordlessly asking for a kiss. She gave it and he stared at her in shock. He let her relax on him and simply kept his arms around her so she didn't fall.

This was their moment, the moment they had both been waiting for. The moment they had denied themselves for so long one out of denial the other out of sheer despair. The lovers wanted to be together now in this one space of time and they wanted it to be special so they didn't speak. Just held each other and waited for time to freeze. It seemed to bend to their will and stop for them; he bent hid head and inhaled deeply into her curls sighing with contentment as though pleased.

"Mmm…"he murmured, "vanilla…and strawberries."

Christine laughed out loud, she never thought Erik to be the type of man to notice subtle things like the scent of her hair. But then, Erik noticed _everything _so she did not really know why she was surprised. He looked down at her frowning at her with confusion and raised a patch of skin where a missing eyebrow should have been beneath his mask and she laughed even harder. Erik shook his head, muttering something she didn't catch and she decided to drop it, enjoying the simple pleasure of having the ability to laugh after so many stressful nights.

"You noticed?" she asked, smiling.

"I notice everything, from your blue eyes to the silly blush on your cheek." He replied.

"Mmm…" she murmured, leaning on him.

Erik simply continued to shake his head and say nothing as he listened to her, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even as he tried to hide it from her. Christine had never seen Erik smile and was determined to get him to do so. She shook her head and laughed at the thought that the Phantom was so human and the irony that she had dismissed him as otherwise. Erik looked down at her and she playfully kissed his masked nose causing him to blink. He gave her a curious look, his eyes puzzled at the onset of her overly playful attitude.

"What is so funny about this?" Erik asked his face becoming worried and placing his cold palm on her forehead as if to check her temperature.

"Nothing my love…" Christine replied, blue eyes dancing, "I'm just happy."

"What is there to be happy about?" he asked.

Christine shook her head and pulled him down to her giving him a kiss, determined to act like a normal couple with him as abnormal as they were. In the dark shadows the couple became aware of time slipping slowly away from them but not wanting to break the spell. Erik held her face between his skeletal hands and kissed both her cheeks carefully, judging her reaction fearing that she would recoil from his touch. Christine felt her eyes shut as she pictured that beautiful angel singing in the clouds as she unknowingly caused him to sin. He still had the same eyes; God had let him keep those at the very least, it was strange that something as trivial as human beauty had nearly cost her the greatest gift she had ever received. Her own angel was right here and she was in his arms.

She no longer cared that her father had technically broken his promise; she had gotten the angel of music. Whether she had received him of his own doing or by her father's wishes she had the Angel. He had given her everything she ever wanted and in turn the only thing he wanted was love. It was a price she was more than willing to pay after that horrible exchange when he had given up his very existence and cursed himself to that awful life of servitude and exile. Not a very steep request, he deserved her love after everything he had done for her. It was a shame though that the price he had paid was so great, but then she was not so sure that the price had been complete.

She ran her hands over his shoulders, noticing how broad they were and tall they were. Christine let her hands splay over the wiry muscles of his boney chest and noticed for the first time how perfectly built he was. She looked up into his grey eyes and then slowly, very slowly she ran her hands over his lips, they felt like normal lips, smooth and warmed from her kiss. He gasped at the contact. Erik retreated from her and caught her hand hard in his; she didn't flinch but instead concentrated on the feel of his hand on hers.

It was smooth and strong, with thick callouses on his nimble fingers, his grip was steady capable as though he had done manual labor. Who knew that the Phantom of the Opera had hands like that? Strong hands that felt like they could save her from everything in this cold world, hands of a protector, hands that could kill, hands that could create…hands that could love. She smiled at him and kissed him again and his tongue felt the same way that Raoul's had, smooth and soft but rough enough to denote his gender. It felt just as Raoul's loving kiss had. No better, Erik's kiss was pure and whole as if his heart was in his lips and he very gently pulled away and gave her a tearful look.

"What is it?" she asked,

"I don't want to wake up…"

"Wake up?" Christine echoed.

"This is a dream and I'm going to wake up and I don't want to." He sobbed.

"No," she whispered, "I love you and you're _beautiful…"_

Erik choked, "you're being kind." He said, "I am repulsive, a monster…"

"No." she said, "Close your eyes for me." He did and she took his hand in hers, "Feel the way God made you, feel how sculpted your body is…how gentle your hands are…feel how strong and steady your heartbeat is as it thuds softly in your chest." She kissed his chest right where his heart was.

"Christine is kind but I know I am repulsive, ah but you are a good, honest girl saving my wounded heart."

Christine sighed and shook her head, taking one of his hands and placing it over her full breast. He gasped at the contact and tried to pull away but she didn't let him, she leaned forward and kissed him fully on his mouth. He groaned softly, mumbling something and kissed me back, warming us both. His hands were cold on her shoulders and she felt herself falling forward into his chest so that they were both lying on the bed. Her hands tangled in the thick cocoa hair and she found herself lost in what she was doing. The pure sin of it and the knowledge that what she was about to do and how she knew it would damn her immortal soul. The thrill of this knowledge and knowing that she didn't care

"Stop…" Erik murmured, "What are you doing?"

"Shh…" she whispered, "Don't ruin this."

She didn't know what she was doing really, only that she needed to be with him right now. Her mind screamed at her to stop but her heart told her to keep going and so she did. Erik was responding well and it seemed he needed this just as much as she did. It gave her a thrill knowing that he needed her just as much as she needed him. Her arms wound around his neck and she kissed him and he leaned back so that she was lying with him in the shadows, the candlelight casting arches of mystery on her already beautiful face.

"Christine, we must stop this before we—mmm…" her kiss stopped his protest and he kissed her back.

In that moment time seemed to pass slowly between the two of them as they explored that forbidden world of passion and sin. They were shy like two schoolchildren but their curiosity urged them on. He let his hands travel over her, being careful not to go too far and let her lead him in these dangerous waters to where she wanted them to go, His hands were soon everywhere in places that only a lover should caress causing her to experience things that were far better left to the imagination than described. She closed her eyes and imagined her mother blushing and hiding behind her hands at the sight of her little girl doing such things.

But the further they went the more she forgot her modesties and discretion until they were joined together with nothing between them but the skin. They finished with each other, reveling in the pleasure, the pain and the completion of it all. Her nightgown underneath her stained with her innocence and her head fitted into the crook of his shoulder. Erik was crying into her hair, tears of joy and love; she pressed her hands into his hair and moaned softly, hiding her face in his neck. He suddenly groaned as if in frustration.

"What is it?"

He rose from the bed and slipped into a black robe and paced across the room and sighed looking up at the ceiling. His fists were clenched and he looked as though his temper would explode in any moment. She felt a sudden tremor of fear at the thought of his rather unpredictable temper. She shook her head at the thought of his rage and his love, how quickly they switched places, how one moment he was weeping with joy over their intimacy and the next he was looking furious.

"I'm frustrated, if my face was normal it'd be so much easier."

"What would?" Christine looked at him.

He looked at her and the love was back, his mercury eyes liquidy with the intensity of it. He went to the side of the room and went to a white vase, picking up a red rose. Erik dropped to his knees and Christine looked down at the rose in his hand; its bloom was crimson and wavy as delicate and pure as love itself. In its silk ribbon was a blue diamond as deep as her eyes, she let him slide it on her hand. She gasped and looked up at him and when he stared at her, directly, unblinking.

"If I were normal I'd take you out, court you properly and then one night in winter when the sky was clear but snowy evening when your hair was dripping with the diamonds of the melting on your sunset curls I'd take a rose just like this and ask you a question."

He handed her the rose and got down on his knees, she put it to her nose, inhaling its fragrance, her blue eyes full of tears as she guessed what he was going to do. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes as if to steady himself before brushing a simple kiss to her knuckles. In that simple gesture was all the words he needed to say, all the feeling he had but still he felt compelled to finish it. He had been waiting so long to ask her this question, it made his heart pound with anticipation and when he spoke again he could read the answer in her eyes.

"But since it is not snowing I must do it here…Christine Annabelle Daaè, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"


End file.
